"We haven't come to squeeze you, father—quite the contrary," declared Avis.
"Leave it till after dinner," directed the young man. "I heard you were fixed beyond power of changing on Huntingdon; but I do hope that's not so, father; because I think there's a good few reasons against."
"What you think is no great odds," answered Bullstone. "And why should you think at all about it?"
"I'll tell you after dinner."
He changed the subject and began talking of his farm. Already he had new ideas.
"I don't see no use in that copse up the valley," he said. "'Tis good ground wasted—only a place for badgers to breed, and we don't want them killing the poultry. But if it was cleared to the dry-built wall—cleared slowly and gradual in winter—it would give a bit of work and some useful wood, and then offer three good acres for potatoes and rotation after. It's well drained by nature and worth fifty pounds a year presently if not more."
"It's yours, John Henry. You'll do as you think best."
Jacob was in an abstracted mood and the sight of all his children met together gave him pain rather than pleasure. They accentuated the empty place and their spirits jarred upon him, for they were cheerful and noisy. He thought that Auna was the brighter for their coming and resented it in a dim, subconscious fashion.
They found him silent and absorbed. He seemed to withdraw himself and pursue his own thoughts under their chatter. They addressed him and strove to draw him into their interests, but for a time they failed to do so. Once or twice Avis and Auna whispered together and Auna was clearly excited; but Avis quieted her.
"I'll tell him myself come presently," she said.